The Unlikely Genesis of Comfort
by Portia
Summary: Insight into how Ginny feels sometime after graduating Hogwarts. Originally written for Flourish's December challenge, but expanded here.


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Aauthor's Note: This was originally a drabble for Flourish's December challenge, [Also, only the second fic I've posted and the first I've entered in a contest] but as I was writing it I realized that there was so much more I wanted to say. So after a crazy day of class, work, Swedish movies and parades for Drew Barrymore (don't ask) I sat down to write and this is what I came up with. Please review and let me know what you think I am very unsure of myself. [I have a small problem with comas, forgive me, I didn't have this beta-ed]. 

Also, for anyone who read my other story _Elysium_ I want to apologize for not posting another part. I was originally going to go with a heroin that was not Hermione, but that got rather Mary Sue-esque. I'm in the process of reworking the story to fit as closely as possible with Hermione as the herione (which causes a small dilemna as to what to do with the brunette child in the story who was originally supposed to belong to Hermione.) I hope to be posting more soon. If anyone has any ideas about either story please tell me.

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Disclaimer: I think I want to be a lawyer, but if I could write like JK Rowling I'd drop out of college tomorrow. Needless to say, I own nothing. 

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The Unlikely Genesis of Comfort

By Portia

My fingernails have not been thoroughly clean in years. As a healer I should be fastidious about removing the dirt that lurks beneath the surface of my nails, a reminder of the many hours spent in my garden. But I gave up trying to keep them clean a long time ago. The soil under my nails has become as much a part of me as my flaming red hair. My mother, with all of her soaps and miracle detergents, would probably go into shock if I told her that over the years I have actually come to cherish the dirt. It's odd, but I find the presence of earth beneath my fingernails to be a comfort I can't find anywhere else. 

You see, no one seems to understand what it's like to be me. Sure, there is not a thing in the world I could not buy. After all, I'm married to Harry Potter, the world's most famous wizard. To those who would proclaim "_Money isn't everything – you need love too_" I would reply that I am certainly not lacking in love. My husband and family generate more love than some countries. It just seems that every time my husband and my brother and their best friend rush off to save the world I am the one who is left behind. I am the one who is supposed to encourage the triumvirate to risk everything if it means that good will triumph. I am the one who is supposed to be grateful my husband is willing to risk his life to rid the world of evil. Many people have told me as much. 

Frankly, I think those other people should be grateful. They will never know what it is like for me to have to lie in bed night after night worrying that this could be the day I become a widow. Those other people will never know how it felt to have to sit down with the brother and sister-in-law, whom I love so very much, and assure them that I would be honored to raise their son, should something happen to them. Even Ron and Hermione themselves do not realize that I am not sure that I would be able to care for their son if they were killed. I am not sure if I could survive losing someone else _to "the cause_."

The worst part is that I am the one who is supposed to take care to repair all the fragments of our shattered existence. I am the one who is supposed to cook a warm dinner every night, just in case they should come home hungry. The amount of food I throw away is repulsive. I am the one who, at any given moment, is supposed to be able to concoct all manner of salves to sooth cuts and burns. I am the one who has to know all the latest counter spells to fix the latest hexes. Hexes that some would consider atrocious and unused, but which are fairly standard for my family. It isn't that I mind doing all this. I am grateful that I am able to help heal my family, that I am able to help them vanquish what is evil. It is just that too often I have found tears slipping down my cheeks while administering a potion to cure the latest injury a member of my family has stumbled home with. Too often I have sat up all night watching over whoever has had the misfortune of taking the brunt of the latest battle while everyone else sleeps easy knowing that I will not let anything bad happen. But no one is there to care of what is bothering me because that is my job. I am the healer. No one expects me to break. 

Occasionally, the tears will be too pronounced and someone will notice how upset I am. They ask me "_What would we do without you to put us back together_?" as if to make me feel important. But I don't need to feel important. They tell me "_Ginny, we're aurors, these things happen_," as if to comfort me. And that is what I need the most, to be consoled. But their words can not comfort me. The dirt is my only solace. 

Horticulture has taught me that from death and decay comes life. The earth beneath my fingernails is a reminder that the pain and sorrow we suffer in this world will serve to make things better for those who come after us. Words have never been able to convince me of that. Which is why I never bother to scrub the soil away.


End file.
